


Such Esteem

by dawnstonedagger



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gushing Praise, In Media Res, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6546253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstonedagger/pseuds/dawnstonedagger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas loves it when she tells him everything she loves about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such Esteem

**Author's Note:**

> DA Kinkmeme Prompt: Solas/Fem!Inquisitor: 
> 
> My thirst for the Inquisitor telling Solas how hot and beautiful and intelligent he is while getting him off is real. Someone quench that thirst, please.  
> *******

This kind of dream sneaks up on him sometimes. 

He remembers others where she sits astride him, looking down, admiring, ecstatic, skin slick with the sheen of their combined sweat. Her form shifting in color and detail, but her spirit always the same, bright and lovely, magnetic and impossible.

She adores him so, tells him again and again, the words tumbling out from her lips prayerlike and assured; everything he needs to hear in that moment, and the next, floating on to waking. At one point he allowed himself to cling to them, the reality unlikely to manifest. 

This isn’t a dream, though. It can’t be.

Lana’s hips slowly grind into his, sharp and real, the flesh cupped in his hands firm, impressed with bruises which conform alarmingly to the reach of his fingertips. He wasn’t even trying to— 

“How are you even real?” she asks. “You are so beautiful, ma lath. So beautiful. Your ears so elegant like summer leaves, your eyes like rainclouds, your mouth sweet as a plum, ah, your pleasing length inside me.” 

“Tell me more,” he says, lifts his hips slowly to make her move with him. She leans back, chest thrust forward, yielding, letting him stoke his arousal just enough that his breath stutters in his throat. 

Slowly, he needs to go slowly if he means to hear her out. It is not a dream; he does not feel his skin flush and his heart leap this way at her words so powerfully, in dreams.

“Mmm, sometimes I wish we could melt together like a pair of candles, disappear into each other like water. Just the sound of your voice, just the barest whisper in the night, and I fill with longing to be closer. I would let you have me out on the balcony, so everyone would hear it when I made you come.” Her green eyes hold his as she says it, catching the flickering light from the candles near the bed, her bed, which should be their bed. 

For a moment, it feels as if his heart stops, skips. Lana bites her lower lip at him, already red and swollen from uncountable kisses, daring him. 

“I will consider it,” he says. If they meant to keep their affair a complete secret, their choice of meeting places would not include her bedchamber. Not when the assembly which congregated so often in the Great Hall, kept their eyes upon the door to it like waiting wolves. 

Lana lifts herself then, clenching her slippery core a little more forcefully than he expects, and elicits from him a truly wanton moan. 

“You’re getting off on this so hard.” 

“That should be obvious, vhenan. In fact, it is the very idea. You sound surprised.”

“I sound like a love drunk fool.”

“Are you?” he manages to say, moving inside her, taking what she gives him so gladly, greedy and hungry for more. 

“If I am it is only because you do this to me. Only you. Only ever you. Ah, ah, Creators, don’t do that, I don’t want to come yet,” Lana pleads. If her cup nearly tips, almost overfull, then his certainly sits at the brim.

She runs her narrow hands up his chest, to cup his chin and jaw, strokes along his ears, smooths her rough palms over his crown back down to his neck and shoulders. He draws her in, or, perhaps she lifts him to her, but their mouths meet again, in an exhilarating rush which he will never quite get used to.

“Are you certain?” His panting breaths mirror hers. Surely she has pulled this bow taut enough?

“You want to hear more, don’t you? Shall I render a poem about how captivating I find your brow? How bold and clean and precious the scalp upon which you permit my kisses?”

“If you can bear it,” he says, holding back a laugh.

“I can, if you can. And I do I love it when you get that frustrated little crease between your eyes, when I go down on you slow.”

“Frustrated isn’t the word I would use. Impatient, perhaps. You have never been withholding.”

“Very well, impatient. Shall I tell you another secret? I love that light inside you, that bright thing that is your mind. Ah, I always want to hear more. Imagine it, you and I, laying in a sunbeam, cares cast aside, your voice steady in my ears. Every sentence might be a revelation, a truth that would make me more learned and you more wise. I love knowing what you care about, simple, complex. Such a gift to learn what makes your heart swell and on what thorns it might catch.”

“We should set you loose on the Orlesieans more often, my heart. You have an uncommonly artful tongue.” 

So artful, that resisting the urge to roll her over beneath him and have his way... 

“You’d ask me to use it on another?”

...is a battle he has just lost.

“Never.”


End file.
